Proud Desert Castles... Sand Castles

The Mjollnar, brave as they were, had no chance against Verax's legions of doom. They fought tooth and claw, literally, against the transgressors, but they were outnumbered, out-gunned, out shipped, and all the peoples they had previously subjugated were rising up against them, gladly accepting Verax's rule to escape the harsh life of servitude under their desert cat minions.

After a large initial battle where the Mjollnar had planned to route their arrogant aggressors, the Mjollnar had been sent scurrying, tails between their legs. After the death of their Rajh, they had been forced quickly from world to world, where the infrastructure was underdeveloped due to the reliance on old technology and social systems.

It was a universe looking increasingly hostile. World after world, vital ports taken away, industry halted, ship development and research destroyed, communications severed, and government cut to the quick... For all their pomp and grandeur, the mighty desert castles crumbled into the sandy realms they once ruled with a strong gust of the wind.

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Aerin sniffed the air, his Reves-bladegun shining dully in the damp of the morning fog, the only moisture his planet ever received. What was left of his warriors, once a proud cohesive unit of ninja-like deathstalkers, now cowered, licking their wounds, hiding in the basement of an abandoned library.

It had been nearly two weeks since most of the mighty Mjollnar fleet, crown jewel of any military within hundreds of lightyears, disappeared in a giant battle, or more accurately, massacre, known only as "The Whisper".

He had lost most of his family in that... He spat upon the word "battle". The enemy had appeared from within the center of the capital ships, bypassing declaration of war or intent, and shocked an anti-matter explosion which destroyed most of the heavy combat capability of the fleet in less than a second, including most of the command structure. It was murder. Not battle.

In that, engagement... He had lost most of his friends fighting to keep the ports of his planet, Benor, open for docking and repair procedures. He had lost most of his company in an engagement with strange dragon-like creatures he had never seen before only three hours earlier, trying to let civilians escape the rampant destruction of their homes.

He had more than two hundred warriors at his command, and now, a Pyrrhic victory, he had perhaps two dozen. A few more of the scattered might show up. A few of the wounded might die...

When would the gods grant him the strength he prayed for, to win back his honor, his home, his life?

~*~"Certainty of death, *small* chance of success... What are we waiting for?" - Gimli